


The Bed We Made

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: M/M, Mars, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-04 05:33:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12162543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: After six years on Mars, life changes for Zechs.





	The Bed We Made

A/N: It’s been so long since I wrote 6x2 - and yes, yes I have several 6x2s that need my attention and I WILL return to those soon.

A/N2: Thank you to Kangofu-CB for beta reading this!

A/N3: As always, thank you Ro for editing!

Warnings: slight angst? Some violence, post-canon, language, dare I say fluff?

Pairings: 6x2

The Bed We Made

  
Zechs had been on Mars for six years, four months and seventeen Terran days the first time Duo Maxwell’s shit-eating smirk greeted him at the opposite end of a cargo shuttle ramp.

He was the co-pilot, that first run, laughably just two hundred hours short of earning his full wings and his license to pilot cargo shuttles. Laughably, because there was no doubt that Maxwell had clocked those hours dozens of times over in his previous life, as a pilot of a mobile suit and even before that, working as a smuggler with the Sweepers.

The smirk had been for show, then, and always.

The tightening of his eyes, the darkness that seeped into the indigo depths, hadn’t been a show.

They exchanged terse nods, and Zechs did his best to ignore his former enemy and instead focus on the pilot, a grizzled spacer who, Zechs suspected, had spent the majority of the five-month flight as far away from the cockpit or anything resembling work as it had been possible for him to get.

Zechs managed to avoid Maxwell for two days, managed to throw himself into the routine of colonial administration with a fervor that earned him several raised eyebrows and a few smirks from his subordinates.

It wasn’t until the third day, until the third night, that Zechs, who always kept strange hours even without the added anxiety of a ghost haunting his colony, encountered Maxwell again.

He had kept an eye on his whereabouts, hadn’t felt a moment’s hesitation or remorse when he tasked one of his surveillance officers with monitoring Maxwell’s movements on the base, but Zechs had used the information primarily to make sure their paths didn’t cross.

That night, however, Zechs used his clearance to raid the the mess hall and make himself a sandwich, slathering on the peanut butter and cherry preserves that he had had delivered on the shuttle, part of the 5kg allotment of personal goods he enjoyed as the governor of the fledgling Martian colony.

It wasn’t until he had polished off the sandwich and cleared away his mess that he heard it. Raised voices. Angry threats. Grunts of pain.

There had been incidents before, more so in the early years, of Martian colonials fighting amongst each other. Especially after Zechs became the governor and a slew of former Alliance and White Fang members or supporters emigrated. He had made it clear, however, that as the governor he in no way supported those sorts of political disputes, and wouldn't tolerate any violence, for any reason.

He turned a corner and found them.

Three former members of White Fang who had taken the sentence of manual labor on Mars over twenty years in a Terran prison.

And Duo Maxwell.

The former Gundam pilot was held in place by two of the men while the third delivered a blow to Maxwell’s gut.

It was clear that it wasn't the first.

“What is going on here?”

His arctic tone and clipped words brought everyone to attention, and four pairs of eyes snapped to him.

The two men dropped Maxwell immediately, and he slumped against the wall, nearly falling, before he caught himself and stood back up.

“Just a demonstration of hand-to-hand combat on Mars,” Maxwell said with a wide, bloody grin. He spat a mouthful onto the trouser leg of the nearest man, who flinched away from him. “Can't say I'm too impressed.”

The three other men still looked wary, waiting to see if Zechs would buy the poorly-fabricated excuse.

He looked at Maxwell again, and the man’s eyes were dark and furious. His jaw was a tense line, his lips pinched together so tightly they weren't even visible.

“We have a gymnasium. I suggest that all future demonstrations be given in the proper location. And at the proper time.”

The three men fled, mumbling a chorus of ‘yessirs’ and moving down the hall with unflattering haste.

Maxwell tried to follow them.

“A word, Maxwell.”

The younger man grimaced before forcing himself to stand up to his full height.

“Yeah, gov’n’r?”

Zechs was actually impressed with the amount of derision Maxwell packed into that single butchered title.

“My quarters.”

Maxwell sneered.

“I’m not really up for a midnight assignation. Why don’t you try me in-”

“Now.”

Maxwell’s eyes narrowed, and Zechs was reminded that this was a former Gundam pilot, a child soldier who likely hadn’t followed a single order in his entire life that he didn’t agree with. This was a man who had been forged by principle, not the chain of command.

Zechs forced himself to relax, forced his posture out of the militarily-rigid pose he had adopted when addressing the colonials, and he allowed some of his frustration to show on his face.

Maxwell’s eyes were unflinching as he took in the changes.

“Fine,” he grumbled, and limped over to Zechs.

He kept his pace slow, no small feat considering the difference in their heights, and it took several minutes to reach his quarters.

Maxwell snorted as he looked around the sitting room, taking in the hideously-mismatched furniture with a sneer. The expression softened, however, when his eyes landed on the far wall of the room.

The current image was of Sanq - a quiet glade on a summer day, the scent of wildflowers on the breeze long forgotten by Zechs.

As they stood there, the image cycled to another - this one of Paris, before the wars. Or rather, during the wars, before Zechs had realized what he was fighting for. He had been on leave and had met Treize for a weekend, had spent the entire seventy-two hours mildly intoxicated and far too much in love to care.

Zechs keyed the door to close, and the sudden whoosh of compressed air startled Maxwell.

He looked back at Zechs, his expression unreadable.

“Sit,” Zechs gestured to one of the chairs.

“What-”

“Sit,” Zechs repeated, a little more steel in his voice.

Maxwell muttered something under his breath, but he followed the order.

Zechs waited until Maxwell was wincing and arranging himself before leaving the room.

He collected a few supplies, and then walked back into the sitting room to see that Maxwell was once again looking at the wall. The images were programmed to rotate every ten minutes.

“Never been to Paris,” Maxwell said, almost conversationally.

“You should go.” Zechs sat down on the edge of the coffee table, so close to Maxwell their knees brushed. “You would like it.”

Maxwell regarded him with suspicion.

When Zechs lifted his hand to show the washcloth he had soaked in warm water, Maxwell’s suspicions weren’t allayed in the least.

Zechs moved to press the cloth to Maxwell’s nose, but the other man’s hand shot out, wrapping around his wrist and holding him at bay.

Zechs sighed and gave him a hard, steady look.

“Afraid?”

Maxwell dropped his wrist as though burned.

He flinched, though, when Zechs gently pressed the cloth to his face.

Zechs almost regretted the taunt.

“What makes you think I’d like Paris? Do I strike you as the romantic type?”

“Anyone can be the romantic type,” Zechs scoffed. He wiped away the blood from below Maxwell’s nose, paying close attention to what pressure made Maxwell wince. He folded the cloth over and set to work on Maxwell’s split lip and the blood on his chin.

Maxwell gave a grunt of disagreement.

“I was referring to the engineering. The pre-space Terrans did some impressive things.”

Maxwell’s eyes flickered back to the image, just in time to see the Eiffel Tower melt away to the volcanic ash cliffs of Pitigliano. Maxwell’s eyes widened just a little as he took in the ancient town clustered precariously on the heights.

“Italy. Pitigliano,” Zechs told him.

“Think I’d like it there too?”

Zechs shrugged.

“Maybe. I was bored out of my mind. The only good things were the cheap wine and the beautiful Italian boys.”

Maxwell snorted a laugh, upsetting Zechs’s hand momentarily.

“Sorry,” Maxwell muttered, and held still for Zechs to finish cleaning him off.

He sat back and surveyed the spatters of blood on Maxwell’s work shirt. Nothing to be done for that, really. Not without convincing Maxwell to take it off.

“Do you need to go to the infirmary for your ribs?” Zechs asked.

Maxwell shook his head.

“No. I’ll be fine.”

“It’s a long flight.”

“And the most strenuous activity I’ll do is tucking Anderson into his bunk when he’s too drunk to make it there on his own. I’ll be fine.”

But Maxwell didn’t move to leave, and for a moment, they simply stared at each other, taking stock.

“You like it here?” Maxwell asked, the question sudden and unexpected.

“I don’t like it anywhere,” Zechs found himself answering it too honestly.

Maxwell stared at him in shock, but then he laughed.

The sound was rich, genuine, and even after the abuse and the swollen skin around his mouth, nose and eyes, Maxwell was transformed, becoming immediately, painfully handsome.

“You and me both,” Maxwell shook his head, still smirking a little as his mirth died.

Zechs arched an eyebrow.

“You should give Mars a try, then.”

Maxwell gave him a wry look.

“Oh yeah, this little taste is definitely tempting me.”

“What happened?”

Whatever had passed between them, the moment of connection, ended. Maxwell’s gaze hardened, and his shoulders crept towards his ears.

“Nothing,” he insisted. “Exactly what I said.”

“I was in the military for ten years, and I’ve been the colonial governor of the least popular colony for more than six years. How many times do you think I’ve heard the ‘demonstration of hand-to-hand combat’ excuse before?”

Maxwell shrugged, but didn’t offer up a response.

“This is bigger than you, Maxwell. If discipline breaks down out here, there’s-”

“It’s not bigger than me. It’s exactly as big as me. And as soon as I’m gone, you won’t have anything to worry about.”

It was clear that Maxwell wasn’t going to budge on the issue.

Zechs sighed irritably.

“I’ve been there.”

Maxwell’s words directed his attention towards the wall again.

“Big Sur.”

Maxwell nodded.

“I bummed around for a while, just after the Barton thing. I spent a month out there.”

“I thought you didn’t like anywhere?”

Maxwell shrugged.

“Maybe I should have said nowhere likes me?”

His voice was painfully neutral as he delivered the words, but his eyes were devouring the picture, tracing over the cliffs, diving into the blue-green water, basking in the sunlight.

They sat in silence, Maxwell lost to his thoughts and Zechs sorting through the realization that, as different as the two of them were, they were painfully alike in too many ways.

The image changed again, shifting to a nighttime view of Moscow, and the spell that had bewitched Maxwell was broken.

He rose to his feet, wincing as he did, and Zechs had to bite his tongue to keep from insisting Maxwell go to the infirmary.

“Well. I should get going. Make sure Anderson’s still alive and the systems are set for take-off tomorrow.”

Zechs stood as well and walked Maxwell to the door.

He held out his hand, and Maxwell stared at it and then at his face. Zechs arched an eyebrow at him.

Maxwell’s skin was rough, palm and fingers mapped with calluses and scars. He was pale, too. The kind of pale that meant a lifetime in space. Not even a month in Big Sur could have much impact on that.

“Will I see you again?”

Maxwell looked like he struggled with a response, lips twitching and then settling into the same shit-eating smirk he had first greeted Zechs with.

“Probably. No one else really wants to make these runs. Plus, once we get back, I’ll have my full license - so I won’t have to make a show of hauling Anderson around with me. I can pick up some kid who needs the escape.”

“I’ll look forward to it, then,” Zechs said, and finally released Maxwell’s hand.

“Yeah,” Maxwell gave him a curious look. “Me too.”

-o-

Six months later, Maxwell was smirking at him again, loping down the ramp of his shuttle, a gangly teenaged girl at his side who was all wide eyes and long limbs.

“Valerie, this is Governor Merquise. Gov’n’r, my first mate, Valerie Child.”

Zechs made a bit of a show of shaking her hand and bowing over it, kissing the air above her knuckles.

She giggled and then turned red.

Maxwell rolled his eyes and made a ‘run along’ gesture.

“Don’t get into any trouble,” he told her.

She was off immediately, five months on a shuttle fueling her curiosity.

Maxwell gave Zechs a questioning look.

“I’ll have a team watch her from a distance. Better than they watched you.”

Maxwell nodded.

“I’m not really worried. She’s… not me. But she’s mine, so…”

“I understand.”

Maxwell nodded again, and then he reached into the pocket of his cargo pants and pulled out a data drive.

“Brought you something.”

Zechs raised his eyebrows.

“This doesn’t look like the first edition of Goethe that I requested from the family library.”

Maxwell rolled his eyes.

“No, your mouldy book is in the hold. This is… something else.”

He sounded a little anxious, and there was pink riding high on his cheeks.

“Thank you,” Zechs said. He put the data drive in his pocket, curious to know what was on it and what could possibly have Maxwell looking like that.

“Join me for dinner tonight?”

“A date?” Maxwell put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I dunno. I mean- I get that you’re kind of important here, but I might have other options, you know.”

Zechs rolled his eyes.

“It’s protocol. I have to invite you to join me for meals while you’re here. You don’t have to accept. Anderson didn’t.”

“That’s because your dining arrangements probably didn’t include moonshine,” Maxwell muttered darkly.

Zechs continued to look at him.

“Uh, yeah. Okay. Sure. Dinner sounds great. What time?”

“2200?”

“Sure. Sounds good. I, uh, should go check in with your quartermaster about getting this babe unloaded.” Maxwell jerked a thumb back towards his ship.

Zechs nodded and stood to the side, gesturing for Maxwell to be on his way.

As he left the hangar, Zechs watched him, and his eyes caught the other man’s when he looked over his shoulder.

Maxwell offered a jaunty wave, put a bit of a swagger into his walk, and was gone.

Zechs’s duties as the governor were light to nonexistent most days. His position was, for the most part, one that was supposed to be mind-numbingly boring. When it got interesting, things were going very, very wrong.

Delivery days, and the four to seven days that cargo shuttles usually docked, were busier than most, and Zechs found himself actually working for most of the afternoon - catching up on paperwork, signing off on requisition forms, checking in with the surveillance team to make certain that both Maxwell and his first mate were safe.

It was nearly 2100 when he logged off of his work station and headed for his quarters. He had requested a private meal for two earlier in the day, after Maxwell had agreed to the invitation. He had at least half an hour to himself before it, or Maxwell, was likely to show up.

So he sat down on the couch in his sitting room and plugged the data drive into the projector.

And there was Maxwell in Paris, wearing sunglasses, his hair loose around his shoulders and smirking at the camera as he positioned himself so that the Eiffel Tower framed him.

Zechs had to laugh.

There were more images of Maxwell in Paris, more of the Tower, some of Maxwell investigating famous structures, visiting museums, eating escargot and clearly not enjoying it.

And then he was in Pitigliano, arm wrapped around the shoulders of a dark eyed, curly haired grinning Italian man who looked simultaneously smug and overwhelmed by whatever circumstance had led him into Maxwell’s arms.

More of the town, of Maxwell exploring it, of him traveling to Sicily.

Big Sur was next, Maxwell reliving that month of glory. And then-

There was a knock at his door.

Zechs rose to his feet and went to open it, expected it to be the meal, but instead, it was Maxwell.

He had changed out of the well-worn cargos and work shirt and canvas jacket that seemed to be the standard uniform of all spacers.

His hair was loose, as it had been in Paris, and the gray sweater he wore looked light, the knit soft and fine. His black trousers were fitted, making his legs look impossibly long.

Zechs swallowed hard as he looked over the length of Maxwell’s body, and then met his gaze.

“This the right place?”

Zechs stepped to the side and gestured for Maxwell to come in.

The other man caught sight of himself, projected on Zechs’s wall, and he glanced sideways at Zechs.

“I, uh, thought you might… It seems kind of dumb, the more I think about it. I mean. It seemed dumb at the time. And I almost deleted it like seven times on the flight out. Hell, I did delete it once. But, backups, you know. And… it’s dumb. Kind of weird, even.”

“No,” Zechs assured him. “Not at all. I like it. Very much.”

-o-

The next time was almost a year later.

Maxwell had had to pass up on the next cargo haul.

He was needed on Earth.

Une had called Zechs, tersely informing him, in his capacity as the governor of Mars, that there was a crisis on Earth; that the Vice Foreign Minister - his sister - was being held hostage by a rogue band of colonial terrorists.

He didn’t know, until after, when the newsreels splashed images of a bloody Duo Maxwell all over his wall, that Maxwell had been involved. That Une had called him in to assist.

That Maxwell had been the one to save Relena. Had taken two bullets for her, even.

Zechs glared at Maxwell when he smirked at him from the ramp of his shuttle that next time.

Maxwell’s smirk faltered under the weight of Zechs’s ire.

But later, when Zechs had stripped Maxwell bare and laid him out on the couch, as he inspected every inch of his body, as he pressed soft kisses and teasing bites along all of the places that made Maxwell shudder and moan, as the projector washed them in pale light as image after image of Terra cycled beyond them, he made sure Maxwell understood.

He was the only place Zechs wanted to be.

-o-

The last time Maxwell piloted the cargo shuttle was his eighth run, and he lingered at the top of the ramp, letting Valerie stride down ahead of him, head high and jacket bearing the shiny brass insignia of a newly-minted captain.

Maxwell had surprisingly few things to move into Zechs’s quarters. Two travel-worn duffle bags. A box of antique Terran records. A leather pilot’s chair that fit in perfectly with the rest of the ugly furniture.

When Valerie took off six days later, Duo was still lying in bed, naked except for the sheets twisted around his hips and Zechs’s arms wrapped around his body.

“You were right. About me giving Mars a try.”

-o-

The End

 

 


End file.
